


Qui Vive

by interstellartreasure



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, also I Just Think The Mask Maker Is Neat, this is mainly an excuse for me to fuck around and find herrah's voice, tpk appears briefly to provide ~context~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellartreasure/pseuds/interstellartreasure
Summary: “You speak, Liege, never for me!”“You would aid our enemy?”“‘Our’?” The maker echoed, an empty gaze boring into Herrah's. “Only upon grounds of the masked I stand. Your kingdom is my own. As is the Wyrm’s."---CW: Referenced character death and momentary unreality
Relationships: Herrah the Beast & Mask Maker (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	Qui Vive

“As I’ve said: _it shall not stand_ ,” Herrah spat, “Your very presence is no more than a stain.”

“At the least, may We humbly request occasional aid from your Mask Maker?”

She hardly refrained a sharp laugh at the phrasing this arrogant king dared to use.

“We possess much of value to offer in turn for such simple services, Beast. No great sacrifice We ask but that to ease the suffering of Our people. We are sure you, of all, shall understand these attempts to comfort the pain of one’s subjects.”

Though the tone barely changed, she _knew_ that touch of desperation. The queen firmly held her gaze; especially now, she would _not_ bend. “And allow said subjects of yours a second chance at assaulting Deepnest’s doors? Please, your people suffer solely due to the unwarranted pride _you_ assume in these attempts to claim _us_ , Wyrm. I only pray their deaths quick.”

The foreign king’s primary hands, although tightly clasped together, twitched. His voice remained low. “A shame we again were unable to form an agreeable compromise.”

“Truly."

“Goodbye, Queen of Beasts.” She caught the dangerous glint beneath his mask as he tilted his head downward. Despite the submissive gesture, she was not so oblivious to the challenge in his bitter gaze. “May this cold season treat you and your people well.”

Herrah didn’t reply to the formal taunt—the bastard hadn’t even bothered to disguise it. The pale one took his leave, passing through the gate without further issue. Yet again, he proved annoyingly persistent. She sighed and gestured for those who joined her to venture back to the village.

—————

The Mask Maker worked tirelessly. Although the main focus was now the sharpening of a Spider mask’s horns, other arms were occupied painting up drafts of later projects. The maker had yet to whittle in the eyes of this main craft—which, in honesty, was just as well. With the additional force of each movement, Herrah was surprised this one hadn’t already broken in twain.

“You speak, Liege, never for me!”

At the maker’s declaration, Herrah’s eyes narrowed. “You would aid our enemy?”

“‘Our’?” The maker echoed, an empty gaze boring into her own. She quelled the sudden lash of anxiety in her chest, firm in her stance as the other went on. “Only upon grounds of the masked I stand. Your kingdom is my own. As is the Wyrm’s.”

An extended pause. The current mask, although unfinished, was set aside and another began anew, stealing most of the attention the maker was willing to give.

“However, within its unintentional nature, truth is found. A Wyrm is an enemy to all, no matter how beloved.”

Herrah dug her needle into the ground. It was those of Hallownest who required these words—however hopeless an endeavor to pierce their faith with the truth of his atrocities would be—not her, who already knew, quite personally, the more recent offenses of this being. She didn’t bother to change from her flat tone. “Is that so.”

The maker moved on from the musing. “For the faceless I work. Those yet to define existence. But not the sole receivers. With my gifts, I aid the faced who have lost focus. This task, I will _never_ be deprived of.”

Spoken with sudden finality, the maker held up the second piece: a round, curved mask irrefutably intended for a smaller bug of Hallownest. Two-eyed, with nothing more than two slits atop meant for antennae to poke out from.

In mere moments after Herrah resentfully acknowledged it, it joined the rest of the masks hung upon the room’s wall. It stood out uncomfortably among the masks for Spiders and Weavers alike.

As infuriatingly stubborn as the Mask Maker was, she had little choice but to respect the work presented—especially when such were given so freely not only to her people, but herself, since the very beginning.

A resigned sigh slipped by her. “Even at the cost of Deepnest.”

“My gift to the individual brings nothing to the current wars of Wyrm and Beast.” The maker shifted to craft a third new creation in her time here. The pace slowed, ever so slightly. “To quell or pursue, such a task is yours I fear.”

“Fear? Why so?” She regret the questions as soon as they left.

“Even the naive must realize leadership, be it a gift to the many, becomes nothing more but a shackle for the honorable ruler they’ve pleaded for.” The horns exuding from the sides of this one nearly cracked under the Mask Maker’s firm hold. The maker put genuine effort into relaxing as to not put the work at risk. “Selfish leaders oft set their moribund people to endure torture, reigning free of consequence. Under Wyrm’s pressure, what shall you take? I wonder.”

How _little_ did the Mask Maker think of her, to assume she’d ever falter and harm those she worked to protect? “I do this _for_ my people.”

A flinch. Despite the typical light-hearted tone, for the maker's voice to lower at all was more than enough to set her on edge. “As all say.”

“I do not simply _say_ it, Maker, it is a promise.” She pressed on, certain in her words, “One I swore the very moment I was chosen to lead by their side. I’d sooner meet my needle’s end than leave my people for my _own_ desires. I am _not_ our previous ruler."

In the silence which fell between them, only ever interrupted by the repetitive pattering work of the Mask Maker, Herrah was left to take in the room for what it was. The chill was uncomfortable enough prior to this, but it _pierced_ now, carelessly biting away at the edges of herself.

She became keenly aware of each inconsistency in the room, as little as it was. Pieces appeared to tear away at the corners of the walls, revealing an inky darkness beneath. In comparison to the clear view of the masks, the very walls they hung upon were blurred, consistently shifting, as if they were nothing more but illusions painted upon a curtain being blown about by wind. She slowly began to realize mistakes in the floor which were only ever meant to appear in fragile material—the stone should _never_ bend as easily as it did now, it was not intended to be so fallible. Everything she knew pointed to these things being unnatural, _impossible_. Sudden apprehension held her. Without the maker’s muttering away while working through the countless masks as a distraction, the room itself felt oppressive in nature.

Herrah shook herself free of such thoughts, gripping her nail and readying to meet further doubt in the maker’s eventual response past the silence. It was only as the horned Weaver mask nearly finished that the maker dared make another sound, nearly a sigh, yet it took moments more before a true voice rose. The first mask and this third were set at opposite corners of the table, the maker now worked to mirror six eyes upon both.

“Ah. It is no place for I to do much but speculate. Observe. My work shall be done, no matter the world I am cast to.”

Herrah took a careful breath. At least she felt as if she could move, now that the maker was once again speaking and she had that to focus on. “You are sure you shan’t, even _temporarily_ , deny the Wyrm’s wishes? For us? We need but these few months to recover ourselves.”

“No, Beast.”

If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought there to be a sorrowful touch to this.

“Will you at least wait for his next visit before sending any?”

The maker’s head tilted, ever slightly. “Why?”

She hated to admit it. “He has offered us goods in return for your aid.”

“No. A gift is a _gift_ and _mine_ to give.” A beat of silence. “Farewell, Beast.”

Herrah gathered herself, her frustrated objections, and her needle, now prepared to leave at the clear dismissal. She had done what she could. Once the Mask Maker had set a stance, never would such resolve falter. She slung her weapon across her back, moving toward the door of this hideaway with dread tracing each step.

The spider truly had no idea what she was going to tell the others of her council. There was little doubt that the king would mention it the next time he joined them— _if_ he joined them and hadn’t already used this opportunity to set his own against hers. Not only were their enemies (they dared not think them anything more; compassion, although valued, was a _threat_ at a time like this) receiving the masks, but freely so. If she weren’t so exhausted, it would’ve set her blood boiling.

There were no results from either exchange that brought forth any news she could use to give them any advantage or solace, let alone peace. How easier it could've been were he not so damnably persistent—all throughout these lands would’ve been better off without the king's appearance at all. But she did not have time to linger on such things. Times were changing. It was up to her to help her people adapt, survive through it.

Just as she neared the comfortable air of the nest, the work the maker had so intently carried on with moments prior stopped. In its unsettling absence, the Mask Maker spoke:

“You are strong, Queen Herrah. Stronger still, you must become, if you live to carve a path ahead. Cutting through uncertainty is no mantle the weak-hearted take. You have proved to be anything but.”

Herrah thought she caught true sincerity in that light voice—the closest to it, at least. She glanced back, yet the maker only continued to hammer and mumble away as if there’d been no halt at all.

She left, actively working against the steady, bitter frustration building within as she followed her remaining threads of thought.

Although her conversation with Hallownest's King was significantly more civil than his initial introduction of what he wished from Deepnest—to bow to his rule without question—he still held the threat of war above her. It took no great mind to know if he intended to confront them outright, the coming months would be best utilized.

While there was some comfort in that the Mantises were as stubborn as her own and, so long as it was off their land, would surely take no official stance in this conflict, Herrah dared not slight them in the case this rose to open war. The king had already gained enough of a truce to walk freely upon their land to meet with herself, she couldn’t risk giving them any reason—as small as it is—to help him along in other matters.

War was quickly becoming an inevitable end, it seemed, if Deepnest had nothing other than people the Pale King wished to claim as his own. He had been confirmed his plea for masks because the maker remained ignorant of the pain which would ensue from such help and allowed no time for renegotiating. Herrah knew they had little of interest to bargain with other than silk, but that was a dangerous material to give away to one like _him_ , regardless of what was gained from trading it.

The king would surely tire of this stagnant game. It was Herrah who must plan how to cope with what would come, to seize the upper hand in the face of this approaching disaster.

Herrah was familiar enough with war. Why, her prior experience in battle had been in confronting a traitor of her partner’s own blood—one intimately aware with areas even _she_ hadn’t realized at that point in time. If she had dealt with that, she could certainly deal with this foreign king, whose only view of Deepnest thus far had been what is seen at the gate’s exit, nothing more. He had little more information to prepare his people with if he tried again to take them by force.

If, then, said battles began in Deepnest, Hallownest’s people would surely continue to struggle with these twisting caverns in their attempts to find actual settlements to harass. Darkness was apparently strain enough on them, and it only grew to fully envelop areas further in. Should all go well, none would live long enough to chart out the very areas nearly everyone native to it had memorized from their beginnings. She desperately hoped it would never come to the point they risked their own home, but at least they had certain advantage here. It was enough. (It had to be.)

And yet, despite these notes of some hope, a familiar ache rose within. For not the first time since her partner’s passing, Herrah felt a threat of suffocation and a flash of the image of them at her side, as if they were planning aloud with her again. She walked purposefully, taking steady breaths to keep herself in the present; she would _not_ be caught waning, not now. Not at a critical time such as this. She was not allowed such mercy.

All looked to Herrah to carry on the protection their ruler had promised to bring with her at their side.

Although in good faith, these dying words remained but a curse. Of course, Herrah would not—could not, if she tried—blame them. Who was to anticipate the rise and insistent pressure of a Wyrm claiming the title of King-Creator?

How she loathed the thought which considered what her partner would’ve done if they were alive; their voice died with them. It was she who must continue onward with no such counsel. Though the reminder only ever struck her with that same spike of pain in her heart, it was of no use to call upon the long dead. It was a shameful endeavor at best and nothing more than enforcing a burden at worst.

No, any suffering which carried over to her lover’s rest would not be borne of her. Herrah knew her place. Alone, she would carry her people against these assailants.

As mortifying as it was for their home to become the grounds of another war, it was what must be done to ensure monsters such as these kings should never claim them again.

Deepnest must survive, she would ensure that. For her family: her people.

**Author's Note:**

> mask maker: aren't you rulers tired of going apeshit? don't you just wanna relax.
> 
> tysm for reading thru!!! as always, it'd be nice to hear yr thoughts! :D  
> if i've forgotten any warnings, please let me know!
> 
> tumblr: @cisphobicfives


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